


A Bit of Me

by whiskeyneat



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyneat/pseuds/whiskeyneat
Summary: You and Gary escape to the pantry for some alone time.A cloud of spices lifts from your hair as you brush it back from your face, and Gary caresses your cheek, choking back another groan as you turn your head and kiss his palm. His skin is warm on your lips, in his hands you almost think you can smell the metal of heavy machinery, and his face is stripped bare, the man before you raw and vulnerable in an instant, an emotion in his eyes you dare not yet put a name to.“Bloody hell, woman, you are killing me.” Gary sucks in a breath as you ghost your fingers up his length, slowly easing his pants down. He gasps as you kiss the tip..., he tastes like salt and ocean foam, deep and blue, as though a thousand years before you lay together where the earth meets the sea, the only witness to your coupling the moon on the water and the standing stones on the shore. “I don't want to finish until I've made you come again at least twice more.”





	A Bit of Me

**A Bit of Me**

_ Finally alone.  _ It's not that you mind the cameras, you've gotten so used to them that you no longer notice them. Everyone who’s anyone has already seen your bum on national telly, even though you try to tell yourself it looks fine in a bikini, you can't help but hide it whenever possible. 

No, the cameras are the least of your worries: if it's not Hope and Noah vying for “most dramatic couple” in the Villa, it's Lottie mentally throwing a hex in your direction. A few nights ago, you woke up to Lottie standing over you with a strange expression on her face, but when opened your eyes all the way to stare at her, she pretended to be sleepwalking. The next morning, she didn't mention it and neither did you, but you hid your hairbrush all the same. 

Too bad you can't hide your man away so easily. Hell, he even kissed  _ her _ for the first time around the same time he secretly kissed  _ you _ . The thought of the instant spark that flared between the two of you that afternoon still warms you right down to the bone, and you feel your insides go liquid at the thought of your man’s hands between your legs last night, of the way you'd bit his shoulder to muffle your cries, and the way that Lottie had stared at you in betrayal come morning. 

After all, you've “stolen” the only man she's felt attracted to since she came to the Villa. 

(But if that’s the case, why do Lottie and Bobby sneak into the shower so much when they think everyone else is sleeping? And if they really “just fell asleep” in the hideaway, why is Bobby always glancing at Lottie when she's not looking, embers smoldering in his eyes?) 

“There's my poppet.” You feel Gary’s strong arms wrap around you from behind, and all your thoughts fly away except for this: your body naturally fitting against his body, his chest pressed up to your back. A tactile memory suffuses you: Gary’s hands gripping your thighs, teasing the material of your bikini bottom with the tip of his tongue, clenching your fists in his hair, thighs shaking as he pulls the material aside and fucks you with his tongue as you ride his face. 

For a long moment, you close your eyes and simply release your worries at the feel of skin on skin, sun and moon, sea and sky, the scent of peppermint causing all the worries of the afternoon to fall away. “Mmm, you smell like sugar.” Gary’s beard scratches you pleasantly as he nuzzles you along the curve of your neck, and your heartbeat quickens. “Good enough to eat.” 

You giggle as his fingers dance along your ribs, and when you turn around to return the favor, Gary’s hand slips between your legs and you have to grip his shoulders for support. 

“Like that, do you?” his voice is low and deep, it catches in his throat as he slips the fabric aside and skims his thumb along the folds of your sex, his eyes never leaving yours. You forget everything in this moment, everything but his eyes piercing yours, and the sensation of his calloused fingers slowly teasing you, heat spreading through your lower belly, making you juicy and slick, the scent of your arousal perfuming the air between the two of you. 

“ _ Gary _ .” You manage to keep it a whisper, just. Your nails dig into his shoulders. The two of you are pressed so close, you realize, because this way, the cameras won't see. You can feel the blood rushing in your ears as you try, and fail, to breathe evenly. 

“Tee Tee, that's not fair! Give it back!” 

Gary’s fingers stop, mid-caress, you instinctively arch your hips against his and he groans. “We’d better move this somewhere else.” 

You catch Lottie’s shrill voice just as the two of you hide in the pantry: 

“Why does it smell like  _ sex _ in the kitchen?” 

* * *

“I don't know, why does it?” You stand on tiptoe, your lips brushing Gary’s ear. He shivers in delight as your teeth graze his earlobe, and he bites back a delirious moan. 

Then your hands are pinned above you, and Gary steps between your legs. You can feel his hard, thick length pressed to your lower belly, and his pupils are dilated, the blackness nearly to the iris. “You're a perfect bit of me, you know that, Poppet?” 

He cups your face in his hands, his lips grazing yours. A frisson of electricity sparks between you, and then the cameras are forgotten, there is only this moment, frozen in time, a memory that you will hoard down the years, beyond the Villa by the sea, beyond the offers pouring in, guaranteed to turn any head with promises of fame and glory. But like fairy gold, they dissipate, falling to dust and leaf mold in your hands. 

You will think of this moment when you are playing in the orchestra pit in Budapest, telling the second and third violins later over absinthe (green fairies and gold leaf) that it is the strains of Saint-Saëns’s work that brought you to tears, certainly not the memory of a crane operator from Chatham whose lips trail like a comet across your skin, every kiss a shooting star, the kind made for wishing on, long ago. 

Gary unties your bikini top, cupping your breasts in his hands, his teeth grazing one peaked nipple. “You taste like my new favorite tea.” 

“London Fog,” you manage, gasping as he sucks first one nipple and then the other into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them one by one. 

_ Bergamot. Sugar. Cream _ . 

“I don't usually drink me a fancy cuppa, poppet, but I never thought a fancy bird like you would go for an ordinary bloke like me, either.” Gary strokes his thumb over your lips, and then his tongue is in your mouth, and it's like the first kiss all over again, at once both frenzied and desperate, as though this is the only moment: but calm and grounding, too, meant to last forever. 

The moment stretches, the pulse between the two of you thundering through your bloodstream. Gary drops to his knees before you, burying his face between your legs. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans wafts through the pantry, beyond the windows the sun glimmers over the bay, and the mutual sound of your breathing is like the hush of the tide along the shore. Gary eases your bikini bottom down, his beard scraping the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He places one of your legs over his shoulder, and you twine your fingers in his thick pale hair, pulling his head closer. 

When the tip of his tongue flicks against your clit, you forget where you are, you forget the voices in the kitchen, the cameras in every corner. 

“Gary!” A low moan rises from deep in your core, muffled by the sound of the bean grinder. You press the tip of your tongue to the back of your front teeth, feeling your orgasm already beginning to build, every nerve standing on end as Gary slowly begins to fuck you with two fingers, his tongue swirling faster and faster. “Yes, oh god, yes, _yes_!” There is nothing but the sensation here, of  _ now _ (now, now,  _ now _ ), pulled from you the way the moon pulls the tides. 

You fall apart just as the coffee grinder turns off, but you are both too far gone to care. You scream Gary’s name when you come, the aftershocks of your orgasm pulsing through your body in heavy, languid waves, the light exploding behind your eyes as Gary raises his gaze to meet yours, the naked, raw emotion on his face taking your breath away. 

You will remember this as you sit at a cafe in St Petersburg: watching the snow drift gently over the spires of the city, a cup of black tea from the samovar in your hands, brewed with currants and meadowsweet. A warm golden glow will bloom in your chest: it will not be from the taste of tea, but the taste of yourself on Gary's mouth as he makes a trail of kisses up your body, groaning as you kiss him again and again, his massive arms braced on either side of you as he presses you up against the counter. 

There is cinnamon in the air, the spice cabinet must have fallen open, you lick the side of his cheek and he licks yours back. 

Gary exhales shakily, his eyes searching your face. You slide your hands down his chest, trailing your fingers along his waistband and lower, his cock quivers at your touch and he growls in your ear. “I want to be inside of you.” He pulls out a condom from his pocket, and you pluck it from his fingers, tearing the packet open with your teeth. 

Gary’s eyes never leave your face as you push his shorts down. He's wearing the same red pants he had on when he won Mr Love Island, and push the solid weight of him back to bend and ghost your mouth over the outline of his cock. His hips buck against your mouth, almost instinctively. “Fuck!” Wetness beads on the tip of his cock, the fabric dampening against your cheek as you drag a fingernail down his sack. 

A cloud of spices lifts from your hair as you brush it back from your face, and Gary caresses your cheek, choking back another groan as you turn your head and kiss his palm. His skin is warm on your lips, in his hands you almost think you can smell the metal of heavy machinery, and his face is stripped bare, the man before you raw and vulnerable in an instant, an emotion in his eyes you dare not yet put a name to. 

“Bloody hell, woman, you are killing me.” Gary sucks in a breath as you ghost your fingers up his length, slowly easing his pants down. He gasps as you kiss the tip of his cock, he tastes like salt and ocean foam, deep and blue, as though a thousand years before you lay together where the earth meets the sea, the only witness to your coupling the moon on the water and the standing stones on the shore. “I don't want to finish until I've made you come again at least twice more.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth in a sharp whistle as you pinch the tip of the condom and roll it on, slapping him lightly on the thigh and bending over, wiggling your bum against him. “Cheeky minx.” 

Gary’s hands cup your ass, he squeezes each cheek in his hand before trailing kisses up your spine. “Watching you wiggle this thing around the Villa is torture, poppet.” He nips the naps of your neck, and you feel his cock tease your entrance. His hands cup your breasts, his chest pressed against your back as his cock teases your wet, slippery folds. “Are you…” 

“ _ Yes _ .” You whimper as he slowly pushes his cock inside of you, your walls stretching deliciously to accommodate his thick girth. “Gary--” 

Gary lets you set the pace. The scent of steel and cinnamon is everywhere, you taste bergamot and salt on your tongue, he is groaning in your ear as your bodies come together, back and forth, push and pull, the tide and the moon and the cool tile under your bare feet. You tense and reality splinters as his length hits your core: again and again and again, you are boneless and liquid, featherlight as he flips you over in one smooth motion, his hands on your hips, your ankles over his shoulders as he drives into you. You feel his whole body tense and then go slack as he comes, his teeth are on your bottom lip, his tongue is in your mouth, his thumb is on your clit and you come, over and over and over, his name like a prayer. 

(And later -- later you will remember his mouth moving against your neck as he slumps against your body -- on a cool dark night somewhere in Kent, watching the lights of the cranes blink in the shipyard, as though all the stars are falling into the sea.) 

“I think I'm falling in love with you, poppet,” Gary whispers now, lifting your hand and kissing your palm, then your belly, your forehead, your lips. “You are so perfect.” He brushes a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead, and outside the door you can hear laughter, like nothing has changed. “A perfect bit of me.” 

He has gone flaccid, yet he stays inside of you, neither of you wanting to leave this moment, for what has changed except everything? 

“I got a text! Where are they?” You hear the other Islanders calling your names, and the room comes back into focus slowly, gradually: you will never smell the ocean again without remembering the way his body feels pressed against yours, the mark of your teeth on his shoulder, your hearts beating together, the way it should always be, the way it always should have been, back in the Villa, overlooking the bay, when you were both young, long ago. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a canon divergence, MC has been coupled mainly with Gary. It's set vaguely in "Villa time".


End file.
